T. D. Mcgee.
By James McIntyre
Having been kindly invited as a member of the Mechanics' Institute some 25 years ago by the late Jeremiah O'Neill, Esq., to meet that gentleman in company with a number of our townsmen, when Mr. McGee was rising from the table the chair being new stuck to him, and it being near a general election he very wittily remarked that he hoped the people of Montreal would be as anxious to retain him in his seat as the people here are. We wrote the following lines at the time, the last verse was added afterwards.
D Arcy McGee,
All compliment thee,
The hope of the land
On your lecture so grand.
Though that is your forte,
Oh give us the sport
Of an hour of your chat,
Then we'll laugh and grow fat.
For none but the vile
Could 'ere cease to smile,
When near to thee
So brilliant and free.
Plant of green Erin's isle,
Long in Canadian soil,
May you take deep root
And bear much noble fruit.
Our hopes were in vain,
Alas he is slain,
By a crankish hand
The flower of the land.